I’ve neglected to mention a harmless incident a couple of nights ago my dear readers. This possibly has something to do with the amount of debauchery I’m subjecting myself too, but more so the fact that every day is rolling into one. I’m starting to lose the will to live. I shall be found dead in this hostel next spring, covered in cobwebs and a record-breaking alcohol percentage recorded post-mortem. Into The Wild it ain’t.
I digress. On one such boozy excursion into town with yet another new hostel buddy (I’m beginning to feel like a vampire; living endlessly here in the dark watching loved ones die. Or perhaps a Connor McLeod, doomed to remain immortal while others pass on). Anyway, if you remember ‘street-lamp’ from the other night? I had been informed there would be a party to celebrate one of her friends birthdays on the Wednesday. Incidentally she doesn’t like the use of her alter-ego ‘street-lamp’, as she thinks it makes her sound like a hooker. She has suggested ‘the pretty Slovak girl’. I’m just going to call her ‘The Cat.’
So The Cat is having a party, which turns into not a party, although I have no knowledge of this as once I leave the safety of the hostel I have no way of receiving an update. Perhaps it’s time I use that crap phone I’ve been carrying around since Mexico. After sinking our weight in beer, I decide we should head along to see if it’s kicking off, and maybe nab some cake. I’ve only been there once, so finding the way and getting the right buzzer while three sheets to the wind I find pretty damn impressive. Not so The Cat.
Nothing is happening, the wine has been drunk and everyone is in bed. I’ve woken her up and she isn’t pleased, claws out, hissing from the doorstep blackness. I beat a hasty retreat like a wounded dog that’s foolishly sniffed the kitty, whimpering my way back to any bar that will have me.
Now I’m never going to live this down, as apparently I’ve become a stalker. She hasn’t let me forget it for three days straight, constantly reminding me of my actions, probably seconds away from obtaining a restraining order. I’m hoping most of this is tongue-in-cheek, but regardless over a beer and a cigarette this evening I learn that the guy she prefers is coming back tomorrow, so that’s the end of that. Usurped. It’s lucky I’ve built up such a hard shell over the years that it’s just water off a ducks back, and I’m not really that bothered. A professional actor well schooled in the art of dealing with rejection. Not. Bothered. At all. No sir.
Don’t drink and stalk
I’ve neglected to mention a harmless incident a couple of nights ago my dear readers. This possibly has something to do with the amount of debauchery I’m subjecting myself too, but more so the fact that every day is rolling into one. I’m starting to lose the will to live. I shall be found dead in this hostel next spring, covered in cobwebs and a record-breaking alcohol percentage recorded post-mortem. Into The Wild it ain’t.
I digress. On one such boozy excursion into town with yet another new hostel buddy (I’m beginning to feel like a vampire; living endlessly here in the dark watching loved ones die. Or perhaps a Connor McLeod, doomed to remain immortal while others pass on). Anyway, if you remember ‘street-lamp’ from the other night? I had been informed there would be a party to celebrate one of her friends birthdays on the Wednesday. Incidentally she doesn’t like the use of her alter-ego ‘street-lamp’, as she thinks it makes her sound like a hooker. She has suggested ‘the pretty Slovak girl’. I’m just going to call her ‘The Cat.’
So The Cat is having a party, which turns into not a party, although I have no knowledge of this as once I leave the safety of the hostel I have no way of receiving an update. Perhaps it’s time I use that crap phone I’ve been carrying around since Mexico. After sinking our weight in beer, I decide we should head along to see if it’s kicking off, and maybe nab some cake. I’ve only been there once, so finding the way and getting the right buzzer while three sheets to the wind I find pretty damn impressive. Not so The Cat.
Nothing is happening, the wine has been drunk and everyone is in bed. I’ve woken her up and she isn’t pleased, claws out, hissing from the doorstep blackness. I beat a hasty retreat like a wounded dog that’s foolishly sniffed the kitty, whimpering my way back to any bar that will have me.
Now I’m never going to live this down, as apparently I’ve become a stalker. She hasn’t let me forget it for three days straight, constantly reminding me of my actions, probably seconds away from obtaining a restraining order. I’m hoping most of this is tongue-in-cheek, but regardless over a beer and a cigarette this evening I learn that the guy she prefers is coming back tomorrow, so that’s the end of that. Usurped. It’s lucky I’ve built up such a hard shell over the years that it’s just water off a ducks back, and I’m not really that bothered. A professional actor well schooled in the art of dealing with rejection. Not. Bothered. At all. No sir.
And if you believe that you’ll believe anything.